graveyard in my mouth
by ember53608
Summary: he gets into the habit of counting the things it's too late to say. one-shot series. shishio-centric.
1. one

_"But you see, there is a graveyard in my mouth, filled with words that have died on my lips."**-Emily Palermo**_

* * *

><p><em>I heard you went home.<em>

He wakes up thinking he'll treat her absence like any other.

Ask for the reason. Take up the note. Hand over the make-up work. Nice and simple. No spaces in between. No apologies or unnecessary words.

The entire process will be painless. Their hands will come into contact for less than a second. It'll all be over within a matter of bland, customary sentences, he thinks, making his way around the corner.

He hasn't so much as said a word when she barrels past him, hands wrapped desperately into the folds of her book bag. Her face is unusually taut and her laughter lines are inexistent.

He doesn't find shooting stars reflected in her glasz eyes.

"Good morning, sensei."

"Good morning."

He laughs at it later, because it really _is _over in a matter of sentences. And bland, customary ones at that.

* * *

><p>r&amp;r please! next update should be in a week or so!<p> 


	2. two

**School's been a little trying lately, but I had this one typed up anyway, so I thought I'd post it. Read and review, please!**

* * *

><p><em>We're okay, yeah?<em>

The afternoon he finds her in the courtyard is one of those unheard-of, chance encounters between broken-up lovers that takes an oddly blatant turn for the worst.

"It's been a while."

She doesn't say a word.

"How are you doing?"

He ignores her answer because he knows its a lie.

"Is that so?"

The brat's only a few meters away, he can see it.

"Chun-chu."

And then those lanky arms have laced their way around her fragile frame and his chances have instantly evaporated.

"You don't need to be concerning yourself with her anymore."

Like he gives a damn.

"She's _my _date now."

And he smiles, congratulates them, and walks away.

* * *

><p><strong>Again, read and review, please! Ideas for future drabbles are welcome as well!<strong>

**~ember**


	3. three

_I was thinking of wearing your tie again._

He's got this obnoxiously red polo sitting at the back of his closet, and he's not quite sure how it got there.

The truth is it was a birthday gift from Tsubomi.

Of course, there has to be something he can wear with the damn thing. A jacket. A sweater vest. A tie.

He contemplates different ensembles for little over an hour. The result is something completely uncalled for, if not per the means of malicious karma.

Amusing, too, albeit by only a smidgen.

The sushi necktie is the last thing he manages to fish out of the closet, and while at first the get-up looks beyond ridiculous, he can't help but think that the two absurdities complete each other somehow.

He wears the audacious pair to school the next day. There isn't much he expects to happen. A few jeers, maybe. A sushi necktie on a red polo? Sensei, what were you, hungover, this morning?

Her eyes bore into the necktie the entire morning. He meets their gaze just once, when he asks her a question from the textbook. She ducks her head and stammers an unintelligible answer. Her face flushes to some shade beyond crimson, and he doesn't call on her for the rest of the period.

He takes the tie off when he goes out to smoke.


	4. four

I'm actually kinda-sorta, really proud of this one. Like, I churned it out pretty quick, but something about it felt **_good_**. As always, read and review, please!

* * *

><p><em>Are things going well for you? You know, with him.<em>

He finds it difficult to teach a class where her face stands out in its conspicuous corner. His eyes drift every so often, always coming back to the haphazard plaits of her school-girl braids.

Her fingers whisper over the brat's knuckles in an attempt to turn pages in the textbook they share, and a lump catches in his throat. There is a lock-and-key nature in their hands; the brat has door-knob knuckles and she has bronze-key fingers that are a perfect fit, ghosting into the spaces his splayed-out hands create.

He finds it somewhat ludicrous, given that the pseudo-couple can have the privilege of such a quality, where he and Suzume-the _real_ couple-did not. Envy claws at his throat, and his mouth goes bitterly sour.

The box of cigarettes in his pocket is spontaneously three ounces heavier than it was seconds before; there is something in the air that calls for suffocation, for that awful yet satisfying feeling that a smoke can give.

Inukai's bird-bone arm snaps spontaneously into the air and brings Japanese history back into the tempestuous fray of his mind.

_So which country was allowed to trade with Japan during Sakoku?_

_Ah, right, the Dutch._

He rambles the rest of the period, the words stumbling off his tongue and into the open air without any particular rhythm.

Half of the jargon he churns out that day, he concludes later, is either entirely false or dangerously close to it. He admits this to the class near the end of the period, and when Sarumaru innocently questions him as to why, he can't help but blurt-

"Those lovebirds in the back were distracting me, with their hand fetish."

Suzume's cheeks take on a scarlet hue, and her fingers snatch away from their place at Mamura's knuckles. The brat's eyes, brazen and sun-streaked, melt into a fop of blond hair that falls to his brow-line. There are murmurs and giggles that resonate about the room-

and he hears them echo for the longest time.


	5. five

I'm reaaaaaalllly sorry for not having updated this sooner. I lost inspiration momentarily, but thankfully, the last few chapters shed a little light, so these next few should come regularly! Please enjoy, and R&R!

* * *

><p><em>Mamura-he's important to you, isn't he?<em>

A part of him likes to think she will never be over him, his words always resonating in her ears and in her throat, her blue-sky thoughts dappled with cloudy confusion.

Another part of him sees the way she looks at the brat, the not-taking-your-shit looks he used to get but can't really catch from her anymore, because they're directed now at someone else.

Another part of him sees the brat's fingers wrapping around the strap of her book bag, pulling it begrudgingly over his shoulder as she looks on.

Another part of him realizes, broken-heartedly, that moving on, perhaps, is easier for her than he'd thought (or wanted) it to be.

But then comes Wednesday afternoon, his aimless, lunch-time walking through the school halls momentarily put on hold by mumbles he hears coming from outside.

"I'm not in the mood to do a marriage meeting!" he hears Tsurutani exclaim, and to Inukai, at that.

The two sit peacefully on the porch steps, mere inches apart from each other, eyes aglow with that spark that has long since left his own. The pair turns to look at him in alarm as he asks rather loudly, "What are you doing?"

He recommends them the inner garden, which, in truth, _is_ a better place to share a lunch than any set of porch steps. But Inukai smiles softly and declines, while Tsurutani stares at him peachy-like.

"Besides, we're the only couple in our class. We moved here to avoid people's eyes," Inukai finishes, and his heart stops, its rhythm tumbling over the sophomore's words. An acrid fire ignites inside of him, coating his tongue and his teeth and his lips in caustic flame, rotting every cell to its core.

"How about Chu-Yosano and Mamura?" he asks, afraid to hear their answer.

"Ah," says Tsurutani, and by now, his heart is racing and the flames are licking away at every piece of flesh that they can reach.

"It's an act."

"Ah," he replies, as nonchalantly as possible, "I see, I see."

He laughs himself into drunkenness later that night, banging his head on the coffee table and taking shots by the minute. Most of what comes after those three, little words is unimportant to him then, mere background music to the euphoria he's in.

Sleep is an easier thing to reach, and he shuts his eyes a little before midnight, his face finding his pillow and his contentment finding his lips. The world is a cradle that holds his fragile figure, its bars hard and firm, yet-

so, _so_ easy to break.

The following morning, he twists into his sheets and opens his eyes, tangles of sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. The plethora of "other words" haphazardly floods his mind and rings in his ears. His heart throbs and his throat aches, maybe because of the alcohol, maybe because of the words, maybe a little bit of both.

Vomiting has never felt more appropriate.


End file.
